


Five Times Charlie Crews Didn't Tan (and One Time He Got Burned)

by denynothing1



Category: Life (TV)
Genre: 5 Things, F/M, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-01
Updated: 2008-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 07:01:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/659199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/denynothing1/pseuds/denynothing1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snapshots by natural light, 1993 to 2007.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Charlie Crews Didn't Tan (and One Time He Got Burned)

**Author's Note:**

> For vonniek and angstville.
> 
> Written post-Season 1, Episode 11.

_Don't worry about the future; or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubblegum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind; the kind that blindside you at 4pm on some idle Tuesday._  
~~ Baz Luhrman, "Everybody's Free (to wear sunscreen)"

***~*~***

September 29th,1993  
Stark residence  
Simi Valley, California

 

"Uncle Charlie! Uncle Charlie!"

"What's that? Is that a monkey? Is that a talking monkey calling me?" Charlie dodged an inflated dolphin beached at the side of the swimming pool, swooped down on the small body hurtling toward him and hauled her up in his arms.

Rachel squealed and wriggled as he tickled her. "No tickling, nooo! I'm too big to tickle. Come swimming with me, Uncle Charlie."

"God, you're getting heavy. How old are you now, thirty-two?"

"I'm eight!" Rachel shouted. And then, as if to prove she was still young enough to have a one-track mind, repeated, "Come swimming with me!"

He leaned in and growled softly against her shoulder, making her giggle. "You know Polar bears don't swim, monkey." 

The wriggling stopped as she looked up at him, all serious brown eyes. "They do too. I saw them on Animal Planet."

"Animal Planet, huh? Then it must be true."

"I can swim all the way across now. I'll show you!"

He dropped a kiss on her silky brown hair. "Okay, but Polar bears need a lot of sunscreen, so you're going to have to wait a minute. Polar bears need a lot of help putting on the sunscreen, too." He gently placed Rachel on her feet and glanced over at Jennifer. As he caught her eye, her fond smile for Rachel was replaced by something considerably more promising for him. The argument on the way over on the value of spending their anniversary socializing, instead of in bed, began to fade.

"Mommy!" Rachel yelled. "Me an' Uncle Charlie are going swimming!"

Through the back door screen, Paula Seybolt called back, "Not without sunscreen you're not."

"See?" Charlie said. "Monkeys need sunscreen too. Scoot." He held open the door for her. Once she had bounded into the cool, dark interior of the house, he turned back to Jennifer. The relentless September sun glanced off her hair and lit the clear green of her eyes. For a moment he stood still, dumbstruck for the thousandth time at the way she seemed to radiate light. 

Jennifer grinned, pulled a white plastic tube from her straw bag and waggled it at him. "Let's get you ready to face the big, bad sun, Mr. Polar bear."

"Hey Crews!" Bobby Stark waved from behind the smoky grill. "Keep it G-rated, you two. There are kids out here!" Charlie waved him off as Jennifer took his hand and pulled him toward the old ficus tree by the side fence. She put her bag on one of the flimsy patio tables scattered under the shade, then started to unbutton the shirt -- his shirt -- that she was wearing over her bathing suit. 

He pulled off his tee shirt and started unbuttoning his jeans. There was something gratifyingly perverse in stripping for each other in a back yard full of cops. He paused to watch as she reached for a shiny clip from the bag and began to pull up her waist-length hair. As with everything she did, her motions were sinuous and graceful and so damned tempting. And if Stark was right and he was whipped? His gaze dropped to her barely covered breasts. He so fucking didn't care. He hoped some of the guys were watching. He hoped they were jealous as hell. 

He toed off his running shoes and shucked off his jeans. "Be careful," he said, as he moved closer to trail one finger up her smooth thigh and flick the tie on the side of her bikini. "Polar bears bite if you rub them the wrong way."

"Funny thing," she said, as she uncapped the sunscreen and reached up to his shoulder to turn him around. "Nobody's ever complained about the way I rub."

"I'm not-- ungh!" The sunscreen was cold. "Surprised. Jesus, that's nasty stuff."

"Oh please." She covered his back with firm, gradually warming strokes that dipped beneath the waistband of his swim trunks just often enough to make it worth feeling like a greased pig and smelling like a mai tai. "What kind of Polar bear are you that you can't take a little sunscreen?"

He turned around. "The hibernating kind." Before she could start on his chest he pulled her close and put his lips to her ear. "You're not that hungry, right? A quick swim and then we can head back the igloo? I can give you your anniversary present and have you--" he flinched as a glop of sunscreen landed on the side of his neck, "--all to myself." His gentle, retaliatory bite on her earlobe made her catch her breath. 

"Charlie," she murmured, "if you had let me get a word in edgewise in the car I would have told you that once we got here and said hello to certain people that I was going to develop a headache from the sun and need to go home very, very soon."

He let her go and offered an apologetic smile. "I know you wanted to get out and talk to people today. Sorry, Jen. I was being a jackass."

She ran slick fingers down his arms and back up his chest, making him shiver again. This time, it wasn't from cold. "Charlie, look. We'll have a great afternoon and meet lots of new people. That's going to come in handy when you make detective." 

"It is, you're right." He quirked another smile and moved his focus back up to her happy face. "I'll wear a suit and a tie and really expensive shoes. Even the criminals I bust will wear suits and ties."

"Impressive." She pushed him away to start covering his cheeks and forehead.

"Wait till you see the kind of igloo we'll live in then. I'll buy you anything you want for it, Jen."

"Oh? Will you buy me a pony?"

"I'll do better than that. On our first anniversary after I make detective, I'll buy you a white Mustang."

"A what?"

"Pure white. And we'll ride and ride and the wind will blow through your hair."

She laughed and ran a slick finger down his nose. "And where exactly are we going to keep this creature? I don't think Mustangs are all that fond of igloos." He pulled her close again. "Agh! Charlie, you're going to get that stuff all over my suit."

Unrepentant, he rubbed his slippery cheek against hers. "We'll keep it in the detached igloo garage. Just think of it, four on the floor, V8 engine, one touch convertible--"

She smacked his arm. "So much for _my_ pony. You are so predictable, Charlie Crews."

"Milk white, just like your pretty, pretty--"

"Charlie!" she hissed as he reached down and squeezed her ass.

"Zero to sixty in five point two seconds, the most beautiful car Detroit ever made." His voice dropped to a purr. "I don't know if I can wait to get back to the igloo." 

It wasn't easy to get a woman to stop laughing long enough to kiss him back, but he was both determined and practiced. She was long past the point of complaining about the sunscreen and that soft, wanton moan in the back of her throat told him they might be able to skip out on the burger, at least, when a voice piped up from down around his knees.

"Ewww! Are you guys kissing?"

Charlie held Jennifer close as she shook with silent laughter. "Yes," he said, keeping his voice as neutral as possible. "We were definitely kissing."

"Why?"

"Uh-- 'cause that's what married Polar bears do."

Rachel wrinkled her nose. "Okay, but you gotta stop now so we can go swimming." 

"Oh, we've got a bossy monkey on our hands." 

She held up a small rubber band. "Aunt Jennifer, Mommy said could you please braid my hair before Uncle Charlie makes me all hyper and it gets tangled."

"I can't imagine where your mother would get the idea that would happen." Jennifer stepped away from Charlie and turned Rachel around to start finger combing her hair. "You're going to have to put the rest of that on by yourself, Charlie."

He slopped sunscreen on his legs, concentrating on Jennifer while she concentrated on Rachel's hair. After several seconds, she whispered, "Stop that."

"Stop what?"

She was blushing and he was laughing by the time she wrapped the small band around the end of Rachel's braid. 

"What's funny?" Rachel demanded.

"I was just reminding your Aunt Jennifer about something we're going to do later that's more fun than a whole barrel of monkeys."

Rachel rolled her eyes, grabbed his hand and tugged. 

He stood his ground long enough to lean in and growl in Jennifer's ear, "Keep the motor running, Jen. I won't be long."

 

***~*~***

 

June 29th, 2006  
Parker Center  
Los Angeles, California

"Crews? Yeah, I rode with Crews. What about it?" Bobby Stark eased the squad car out into the afternoon glare, then squinted over at the open, curious face of the man next to him. Jesus. Rookies.

"Nothing, Stark, relax. I was just curious, what with the hearing coming up and all. I barely even heard of him before last year. And that was just rumors at the Academy."

"Yeah, well, that's because you were what, Juarez? Two years old when he got sent up?"

"Fuck you, gimme a break. Besides, it's not like there wasn't other stuff going on back then."

"Tell me about it." Bobby swung out into the traffic, then cursed under his breath and tapped the brake as the car in front of them inevitably slowed to five miles under the speed limit. He thought briefly about hitting the siren, just to scare the crap out of the guy, then regretfully decided he was too old for that shit. He pulled the cruiser across three lanes to turn up Temple. 

"So there's no story?"

"Yeah, there's a story, rook. There's always a story."

 

***

 

June 17, 1994  
3rd and Whittier  
Los Angeles, California

Bobby started to snicker before Charlie even got out of the car. "Make his day, Charlie."

"Oh, I intend to." Charlie slid smoothly out the passenger's side door, settled his hat brim firmly over his eyes with one hand and adjusted his sidearm with the other. "Please keep your hands where I can see them," he barked at the driver of the rusty, battered Buick sedan pulled over to the side of the road. The usual, goofy Charlie voice had dropped about an octave. 

Charlie's walk was different, too; a chest up, balls out swagger designed to put the fear of God in anyone who got it into their stupid heads to fight or flee. Bobby snickered again. The voice and the walk were familiar. They were _his_ voice, _his_ walk, and Charlie, smart kid, had picked them up after riding with Bobby for no more than a day. Since Bobby had been using the same voice and walk as his old training partner for over a year by that time, it tickled him to see them being handed down. To protect and serve and scare the shit out of anyone who wasn't already shitting themselves for getting caught. Tradition was a great thing.

A quick look through the back window of the Buick assured Bobby that the driver's hands were on the wheel and that this was probably going to be a routine and forgettable traffic stop. With one eye on Charlie as he demanded license and registration, Bobby pulled up the radio and called in the plate numbers. After a short pause, a crackling voice came back on the line, said, "Three Adam Thirty-three, stand by," and switched him to dispatch. He listened with growing disbelief.

"Crews! Get back here!"

Startled, Charlie lifted his head to stare at Bobby, who was making emphatic 'Get your ass back in the car' motions. Charlie passed papers to the Buick driver, then jogged back to cruiser. "What the hell, Bobby? I got six different violations here and that's just from preliminaries."

"Get in the car, Crews. Now. The bastard's been spotted and he's heading this way."

 

***

 

June 17, 1994  
710 South  
Los Angeles, California

 

"This is freaky. Don't you think this is freaky, Bobby? I wish I had a skateboard with me. Well, first I wish I knew how to skateboard, and then I wish--"

"Oh for fuck's sake. Yeah, it's freaky. And if I have to stand here one more minute I'm going to the union and tell 'em to get us triple over time for this shit."

From their perch half-way down the long slope of the 710 transition to the 405, Bobby took in the eeriest sight Los Angeles had to offer: an empty freeway. The Chippies had come through about five minutes before, doing a slow, serpentine weave from one side of the five lane road to the other. They had corralled their restless, honking herd and led them off to tangle up the surrounding surface streets. It was going to be a bitch getting home. 

Bobby didn't much like being outside the car, but they'd been instructed to stand out in case any bugshit idiot tried to run onto the road. There were already dozens of citizens lining the overpasses, and the hazy, golden, late afternoon air was thick with the raucous tension of a party about to spill over into something else. 

"Oh boy, here it comes."

Just as the radio squawked to life through the open cruiser door, Bobby turned, hand on his side arm, to see what had caught Charlie's attention. In the misty twighlight, it almost looked like a parade, with black-and-whites instead of floats. And at the front of it all, the Grand Marshall; the retired football hero, blood on his hands still fresh, riding in a white, Ford Bronco. 

 

***

 

June 17th, 1994  
405 North  
Westwood, California

"Christ, I gotta pee."

Charlie nodded wisely. "How many times have I told you that coffee is a diuretic?"

"Oh shut up. The minute this car stops, I'm gonna put in for a new partner, and then I'm gonna pee for about three hours." Bobby eyed the cruisers surrounding them. There must be twenty of them by now, lights flashing, sirens wailing and all of them, every single fucking one, going no more than thirty miles an hour. The half-dozen helicopters overhead kept having to loop back in order to keep the slow-moving caravan in view.

They passed the Santa Monica boulevard exit and Bobby sat up, then leaned forward. "Get off at Wilshire, you dumb fuck. Do it, do it. Get off at Wilshire, come on, come on, come on!"

Charlie punched up the air conditioning as they rolled in state past the Wilshire exit east, then past Wilshire west. "Colder air helps your bladder contract," he offered helpfully.

"Shit!"

 

***

 

June 17th, 1994  
405 North  
Westwood, California

"Where does he live, anyway? They always go home eventually. Even if they usually do it a hell of a lot faster." 

"Fuck if I know. I just wish he'd get there soon so I can pee in his bushes and then arrest the son of a bitch." Bobby was in agony, and Crews, naturally, seemed to think that talking was the answer. 

"I've been doing the math in my head," Charlie mused. "If he keeps going north and picks up the 5, hoo. That's a straight shot to Canada. At this speed, I figure we'll be there in twelve days. Thirteen, tops."

"Motherfucker!" Bobby yelled at the Bronco. "Pull over or speed up or put a fucking bullet through your fucking head. Just do something!"

 

***

 

Sunset and Rockingham  
June 17th, 1994  
Brentwood, California

"Hold them! Hold them!" 

Bobby zipped up, then scrambled around the car, almost falling on the steep street leading up toward gated, million-dollar estates. Christ, he not only couldn't see the house -- though the circling helicopters told him it was just up ahead -- he could barely see Crews, who had waded into the mob that was trying to follow the Bronco up Rockingham. "Crews!" he bellowed. "Hang on!"

"I'm okay!" Crews hollered back. "Just get your ass over here!" 

Bobby shoved and shouted, using his bulk and his pent up aggravation to move people out of the way and back down the hill toward Sunset. He hadn't wanted to pull out his stick this badly for over two years, but he kept it stowed. Even he knew better, especially with helicopters overhead. Thankfully, most of the citizens milling around were shouting and laughing and treating the whole thing like a fucking day off with full pay. 

He locked arms with Crews and some buffalo-sized patrolman from Rampart -- how the hell _he_ had gotten over to this end of town was anybody's guess -- and several others. The crowd finally figured out that they weren't going to make it up the hill, and settled for waving at the helicopters and generally acting like idiots.

"Triple overtime," Bobby muttered, "won't even be close to enough."

"I don't know, this is kind of interesting." Crews' eyes were bright blue under the brim of his hat, lit with an obscene level of enjoyment.

"You keep thinking that way, Crews. Right up to the point where somebody lights a match or pulls a trigger."

"I think they're just having fun. This doesn't even seem real. It's like a movie or something."

"Yeah, and there's a real dead woman in the morgue and these jokers probably don't even remember that. They're acting like this asshole is some sort of hero? He's guilty as sin, and he's going away for a long, long time. That's when I'll do my celebrating."

"You're a joyless man, Bobby Stark."

"Fuckin' A."

 

***

 

MacArthur Park  
June 29th, 2006  
Los Angeles, California

"So did you really pee in his bushes once you got to the house?" Juarez asked. He laughed as he bit into his pupusa.

"Yeah. Yeah, I did. I pissed all over that bastard's bougainvillea but good." Bobby paid for their food and waved off the protests of the vendor, who didn't want to take the money. Just his luck, one of the bums feeding ducks by the lake would turn out to be I.A. fucking D. 

"Then we arrested the murdering asshole and had the perp walk seen all over the freaking world. You know the rest, what happened when the goddamn lawyers got a hold of it. We did our job, at least." He kept his lunch in the bag and scanned the crowd as they walked back to the cruiser. Mostly families, but even if this place had changed over the years, he still preferred to keep one hand free. Just in case.

"Must've been weird when Crews was… you know."

"No, it wasn't. We did our job then, too." They climbed back in the cruiser in silence and Bobby figured they were done with the conversation. He was done, anyway. He unwrapped his burrito and took a bite.

"I mean, same kind of murder, vics with their throats slit. Both the guys they arrest look guilty as hell, and only the cop goes down for it."

"Guilty as hell is right. That's the one thing to keep in mind, rookie." 

Good fucking god, Bobby thought. Crews. Charlie. The Charlie he'd known all those years ago, who had once been just as young as Juarez, and just as stupid. What the hell would he be like now? Not that Crews was going to win his appeal, Bobby was pretty sure, so it wasn't like Bobby would ever find out. But it was something he hadn't thought of in years, what had happened to Crews. What had been happening to Crews, all this time. Jesus.

"It's still really weird, right?"

Bobby kept chewing, and didn't answer.

 

***~*~***

 

Unknown date  
Pelican Bay Penitentiary  
Folsom, California

In the dark, you feel along the cracked spine of the book. The curling pages crumble at the edges under your restless fingers. You have most of it memorized by now, so darkness is no barrier to the truths the book imparts. The book says: build a house. Brick by brick, floorboard by floorboard, shingle by shingle. Concentrate on one task at a time. Be thorough. Build something solid. Something real. However humble each step, in work there is wisdom.

You pound wooden stakes flying blood red flags into the ground. They mark a perimeter on a bluff overlooking the ocean. The trench is dug. The cement is mixed. You watch with satisfaction as the gluey, gray mass pours into the foundation form and fills it up. You start leveling. Back and forth, you smooth it out. Smooth it and smooth it, till the twelve gasping jurors lined up in the trench have disappeared behind a blank, gray floor. 

You lift a four by four and wedge it into a square frame. Start pounding, pounding, pounding the nails in. There's more satisfaction than you might have guessed in driving the gritty, roughly finished nails exactly where you want. You pound through clutching hands and bare feet first, then necks and balls and the flabby skin on either side of soft, pale bellies. Another four by four, then another, till you have the wall and its cargo properly framed on the ground. You winch it up; pull and push till it settles into the foundation. You ignore the screaming. It's only fair. They never listened to you.

Four more times, you repeat the process. It's going to be a big house. A dream house. Big enough for judges hung down one wall and lawyers down the other. The LAPD brass get their own section and your brothers, the men you called friends, the men who called you friend… you may need to build another wing after all.

You pull a slab of sheetrock off the stack and set it in place. It's back breaking work, but you push on. Push on through the sound of muffled, panicked voices. The sounds stop when you blow insulation between the walls. It's gratifying. Tidy. You dust off your hands.

The roof comes next. You want high ceilings over high walls, the better to hang long, long windows with their frames made of bones. It's dirty, sticky, messy work; the smell is sickening and coppery-sweet, but you'll scrape and polish till the bones gleam white in the sunlight pouring over you like a benediction.

You forget, sometimes, what sunlight looks like. 

You forget how you need it to be able to see exactly whose shoulder you pop out of joint, whose collar bones you yank free. Without the proper light, it could be Jennifer's hip joints you snap or Bobby's leg bones you twist up and out or Tom whose rib cage you split apart and you _need_ to see. To get it right. 

You need to see Tom, the stupid fuck, who got himself killed; got his throat slit and blamed it on you. You could have done it, you realize now. Did you do it? Maybe you did. Maybe you did it as easily as you reach into the warm, slippery gash across his neck to pry up--

The overhead light comes on with a snap and you sit up, startled, heart pounding. The book falls to the floor. A slit in the heavy, riveted cell door flips open and a tray slides in. You sit on the bed and stare at it, then stare at your hands. There's black grime under your fingernails, but the skin is white as milk. Anemic, red-brown patches scattered across your arms startle you, but when you scrape your nails across them, they don't come off. The stink of blood recedes, replaced by the dusty, cloying smell of Cream of Wheat. You wearily get up and drag the tray toward you.

Another twelve hours in the harsh, artificial light. When the dark returns, you can build your dream house again.

 

***~*~***

 

September 17th, 2003  
Pelican Bay Penitentiary  
Folsom, California

"Hey Crews, you knocked that punk's teeth out, yet? You knock a punk's teeth out, you'll slide in real smooth."

Ted starts to shake all over again. In front of him, Crews is sitting on the isolated, splintering picnic table, feet propped on the bench, completely relaxed. There is no sign that he has just caused severe damage to two more muscled, tattooed guests of the State with frightening efficiency, making the score over the last two days Crews, three, aspirants for Ted's affections, zero.

As the jeer bounces off the concrete block walls surrounding them, Crews goes still and turns his head. The light in those pale blue eyes dies, leaving behind… nothing. The dead, cold look is focused on someone behind Ted. Ted thinks it just might kill him anyway. He pictures the blurb in the News in Brief section of the Journal: _Ted Earley, 1958 - 2003. Collateral damage in a throw down between two prison psychos._ What a way to go.

The yard has gone silent. There's a heavy clang as something drops to the dry, dusty ground. A low voice says, "Jesus fuck, are you insane?"

Slowly, slowly, Crews turns his attention back to Ted. Ted is suddenly all too cognizant of what a rabbit in a snake pit might feel like. One second goes by, then two, then five more, and for reasons Ted assumes he'll figure out eventually -- if he doesn't die first -- the tension in the yard eases. Distant conversation resumes. And just like that, the light comes back into Crews' eyes. 

"Hey," Crews says gently, "Don't sweat it." He leans back on his hands and a painful, creaky smile lifts his lips. "Now move a little to your left."

Poised to jump out of his skin, Ted instead obligingly shuffles his feet and shifts left. His shadow falls across Crews' face. The sun beats down, targeting the strip of skin on the back of Ted's neck, where newly buzzed hair is still standing on end. 

Crews closes his eyes and seems to bask in the shade. "Excellent," he says. 

"I'm uh-- Ted. Ted Earley?" No reaction. For some reason, that makes Ted want to talk even more. "I'm-- I didn't really have a chance to introduce myself yesterday, so. I'm Ted. I'm uh, good with numbers. Well. I'm good with numbers in theory, but in practice I'm… in for insider trading. Uh, which strikes me, might be useful in here. Trading. On the inside. It's a…" In his whole life, Ted has never seen anyone sit this still. "…a little joke." 

Ted coughs. "So if you needed-- need-- If things work around here the way I think they do, I might be useful to you. Numbers-wise. Or trading-wise, actually. Not, um. Otherwise, but you know, thank you for-- back there, where you quite possibly -- though I have no idea why -- saved my life, and… well. Thanks." 

Five long, utterly silent minutes later, Ted is wondering if he should check Crews for a pulse.

Which is when Crews opens one eye. "In ceremony there are forms and there are sounds, there is understanding and there is believing."

Scrambled by the brutal sun and the most fear he's ever felt in his life, Ted's brain stumbles one way, then another, then just, plain gives up. "I… have no response to that."

"Ah," Crews says. "Doesn't that feel good? Now." Crews closes his eyes again. "You may not have noticed, but while we've been chatting the earth has kept turning, as it inevitably does. So move a little more to your left, would you, Ted?"

 

***~*~***

 

May 4th, 2007  
Bahia Tortugas  
Baja California Sur, Mexico

 

"Charlie?"

Connie peers into the dim interior of the sturdy little cottage and absently shakes her feet to get the sand out of her shoes. Her stomach, finally settled after the long boat ride from Cabo, threatens to rebel again as the smell of fermented fruit and something worse hits her nose. "Charlie are you in here? They said down at the beach you were here."

Two weeks of guiding him through the media circus after the verdict. Two more of letting him have some space. Four weeks after that of worrying and two more of frantic phone calls and traces on her American Express card have led her from Los Angeles to San Diego to Ensenada to Cabo San Lucas to, finally, the back end of nowhere, Mexico. 

She has finally learned how to pronounce _Americano pelirroja_ well enough to get actual help instead of quizzical stares. Not an accomplishment she'd ever thought she'd need, but if she continues to have dealings with Charlie, she supposes it might come in handy again at some point.

"Señora Crews?"

She jumps as the gate to the enclosed, heavily planted courtyard crashes open. A small woman with curly, gray-brown hair comes up beside her. She's carrying an enormous potted plant sporting thick, jagged leaves. 

"Señora Crews?"

"No, I'm-- Lo siento, no habla Español. Do you mean Señor Crews?"

"Charlie? No." The woman laughs, then continues in accented but perfectly serviceable English. "I mean his wife. Is that you?"

Connie shakes her head, then reaches out her hand, "No I'm Charlie's-- his friend. Is he here? Constance Griffiths. Connie."

"He's here." The woman shifts the plant to one arm and gives Connie's hand a firm shake, then looks her up and down. "Me llamo Rosaria. Rosaria Gerardo. I have been… helping Charlie. You are a friend? You are late."

"What do you--" 

Connie jumps again as the woman bellows through the open door, "Carmelita!"

There's a thump from inside the cottage, then the sound of a door closing. A tall, blonde woman comes to the door, dressed in shorts and a bathing suit top. She's gorgeous, and her shiny, waist-length hair makes Connie more conscious than ever that she just spent an uncomfortable day and night on a non-deluxe cabin cruiser. 

"Carmelita goes to the pier," the blonde says. Her accent isn't Mexican; if Connie had to guess, she'd say it was Eastern European of some sort. "Today she goes on the boat with Freddy and some tourists. May I help you?"

Rosaria gives a snort and pushes past the blonde, who flattens in the doorway to avoid getting spiked. Connie says faintly, "I'm looking for Señor Crews." The blonde gives her a puzzled look, and Connie decides what the hell. "Americano pelirroja?"

"Ah!" The blonde's brow clears and she points over her shoulder. "Bedroom." She slides her feet into the expensive-looking sandals sitting by the door and snags a woven bag from the wall behind it. "Poor chap. Last night very fun, but is not good day today, I think." She smiles apologetically at Connie. "I have to catch fishes now. Ciao!"

Just as Connie gingerly steps over the threshold, there's another thump as the door to what she presumes is the bedroom swings open and hits the wall. Charlie stands in the doorway, blinking. For a moment she wonders if he recognizes her, or if he even can; his eyes are puffy and he's weaving slightly as he scratches his scruffy beard. The scent of marijuana drifts through the door with him. He's shirtless and there's a large, dark bruise on one shoulder, with a scattering of smaller bruises across his chest. 

"Carmelita?" he says, uncertainly, shielding his eyes from the glare coming through the front door.

"Charlie, it's Connie." She walks forward and places her travel case on a chair by the wooden kitchen table. Over by the sink, Rosaria is scraping half-eaten food from numerous plates into the trash and watching with undisguised interest.

A beatific smile breaks over Charlie's face. His lip is split. "Connie!" He shuffles forward and wraps his arms around her. It's like being mugged by a furnace.

"Charlie? Are you okay? Do you have a fever?" She struggles to pull back in order to feel his cheek. Now that her eyes have adjusted, she notes that it's not only hot, it's an ugly, dark red.

"Connie, Connie, Connie." He pulls her close and mumbles into her neck. "You always smell _so_ good."

She wrinkles her nose. His smell leaves something to be desired, to say the least. Even when he was locked up he was as fastidious as he could manage about personal grooming. Now he smells like pot and pickled lime and three-day old fish. She staggers slightly as he continues to hold her and sway back and forth. She looks over to Rosaria. "Is he sick?"

"Drunk," Rosaria says matter-of-factly. "Also…" She puts her forefinger and thumb to her lips. "You know?"

"But he's so hot. You don't get--"

"Si, it's also why I'm here. He's a… eh, tonto… idiot? He won't come in from the sun. He gets stupid from it." She turns back to the sink and begins washing the leaves on the plant. "More stupid than most of the time."

"Oh god." Connie manages to maneuver Charlie into one of the chairs by the table, where he hums at the sight of the plate of cut-up mango and papaya that Rosaria has placed there. As he starts to shovel chunks of mango into his mouth, Connie says, "Charlie, how the hell did you get here? Do you know how long I-- we've been looking for you?"

"Bo," he says, "fro san ee-aygo."

"Did anyone on that boat tell you that you were leaving the country?"

He cocks an eyebrow at her and swallows. "Maybe."

"Charlie! It's a different world now, do you realize that? I don't know how the hell I'm going to get you back across the border. You have no passport, no license-- Do you at least still have the California I.D. card I got you?"

He looks vaguely around the kitchen. "I might have burned it." He's started on the papaya slices now, crunching happily. "Rosaria, when I burned the stuff on the beach, was there an I.D. card? Do you remember?"

"I only remember the shoes. From the smell."

"Oh, right." He looks back up at Connie. His eyes are clearing slightly and just like that, jovial Charlie disappears. "Why are you here, Connie? Who did you bring with you?" He cranes his neck to look toward the doorway, then locks his gaze back on her. This is the Charlie that scares her a little. Scares her a lot, on occasion

Her shoulders slump. "Nobody's with me, Charlie. I'm here by myself. To bring you home."

"What's wrong with here? I like it here. It's hot, it's dry, there's an ocean. They speak Spanish, I speak Spanish. They don't understand my Spanish, but nobody at home did either, so it's just like being there. Only you know the difference, Connie?"

"Charlie--"

"Nobody's trying to fucking kill me."

"So you're just going to do the job for them?"

He stands up so fast the chair tips over. He almost goes with it. In the time it takes for him to grab the table and her shoulder to steady himself, the cold, angry look on his face dissolves, leaving behind a hopeless kind of despair. She hasn't seen this look for years and it scares her more than angry Charlie ever has.

"Charlie, you have to come back with me. Please."

"Just--" He leans against the table. "Rosaria, can you give Señorita Griffiths her American Express card? She's leaving now."

"I can't leave without you, Charlie, that's what I've been trying to tell you. The Department settled. They're giving you everything you asked for. The money. And the job. You're a Los Angeles police detective, Charlie. Homicide. Any time you want to be. And you're very, very rich."

He blinks.

"Did you hear me Charlie? They settled. They didn't even negotiate. We got our opening amount. All of it."

He weaves in silence for a moment, then looks confidingly into her eyes. "I have to go throw up, now."

She sighs and pats his hand. "Do you need any help?"

"No, I'm pretty good at it. I'll be fine." He turns and stumbles toward the back room.

She winces at the sounds that even the heavy door can't muffle and picks up the toppled chair.

Rosaria comes over, plunks the plant on the table, and awkwardly pats her shoulder. "Tequila?"

"No, I'm-- thank you. Thank you also for looking out for him."

Rosaria shrugs. "He's a nice man. Sad, but that's no so unusual out here. And he's no mean when he's drunk." She looks at Connie speculatively. "And now he's rich, too. You're lucky."

Wearily, Connie shakes her head. Squealing pipes behind the wall precede the sound of a shower running. "Really, we're not--" She sits heavily in the chair. It's been an exhausting two months. "You know? Never mind."

Rosaria snorts again, then points to the plant. "When he comes out, you use this on him."

Connie eyes the spiky plant. "I'm actually not that mad at him."

"No, no, like this. For his skin." She pulls off one of the leaves and snaps it in half. A clear, thick gel oozes out. "Zabila. Um, you say, 'aloe?'"

"Ah. Thank you again, Rosaria. Gracias."

"De nada." She pulls a gold credit card from her pocket. "I've been keeping this for him. It's yours, I think?"

Connie takes the card. "I can-- can you write up a bill for his expenses?"

Rosaria smiles. "You should have asked before I found out he was rich."

***

She's dozing to the sound of insects and birds going about their business outside. The waves crashing in the distance aren't helping to keep her eyes open, either.

"Can I get you a beer?"

"Mmm? No." Her eyes open to the sight -- and more thankfully the smell -- of a scrubbed and rinsed Charlie. He's wearing clean swim trunks and his hair, longer than she's ever seen it, is curling as it dries over the collar of his open white shirt. It's the color of the brick walkway outside; much lighter than it used to be, when they would pull him from the hole to come meet with her. She pushes the plant forward. "Rosaria said to use this on your skin."

His eyes brighten as he pulls a pitcher from the rusting, squat refrigerator. The liquid inside it is mauve colored and syrupy-looking. "Guava juice." He says. "Unleaded." He pours two glasses and sets them on the table. After a pause, he lifts a jug from the floor and pours a slug of amber liquid into his own glass. "Premium for me." He tosses off the drink in one gulp, grimaces, then pours himself another and lets it sit. "Rosaria thinks I'm insane." 

He pulls the plant forward, snaps off a leaf and starts spreading the transluscent goo on his face and neck while Connie resolutely sips her juice. She knows he'll work things through in his own way on his own schedule. 

After a period of silence, where he slathers aloe sap on his chest and she watches, embarrassed a little, but not about to look away, he says, "Do you think I'm insane?"

She abruptly sits up and thumps the glass down on the table. "No. Charlie, no, I do not. You know that. We've talked about this. The psychologist said--"

"Fuck the psychologist," he says, mildly, and sits in the chair across from her. "What do you think?"

"I think… that you are going to need an enormous period of adjustment. To the city, to the people, to working with those-- the people. I always wanted the money for you, but I never wanted the job. I think it's too much, but not because you're--"

"What are you worried about? Are you worried about the same thing I bet the Department is worried about? That dropping me into the middle of Parker Center with a badge and a gun is like dropping Charlie Manson into the Hollywood hills with a tab of acid and a butcher knife?" He cocks his head for a moment, considering his own words. "Maybe it's the name."

"You are not a monster, Charlie. You never were."

"Never was back then. Although sometimes I wondered. Would you put some of this on my back?" He stands up to shrug off his shirt and doesn't bother to pull up the loose trunks, which have fallen very low on his hips. There is no change in the color of his skin above and below his waist, and she can just imagine the sort of sight the denizens of this little beach town have been treated to these last few weeks. She noticed this about him when he used to change for court. He never cared who was in the room with him, whether he was partially or even completely unclothed. Twelve years of zero privacy and routine strip searches have driven out any modesty he might once have had.

He sits back down and leans forward, elbows on his knees. The second drink is now clasped in his hands. "I'm so tired," he says. "I don't know if I can explain to you..." He tips his head back and drains the glass, then puts it carefully on the table and lowers his head again.

The skin on his back is deep red, a much less pleasing color than his hair. It looks sore and feels painfully hot. "Oh, Charlie," she says under her breath as she starts to spread the aloe in methodical strokes.

He doesn't flinch at her touch like he used to, even though she's sure she's hurting him. There's a lull of several minutes, while she snaps leaves and works on his back and his breathing slows. She's wondering if he's fallen asleep when he mumbles, "I stopped jerking off around the third year." His voice is flat. "Have I told you this before?"

"N-- No."

"Sometimes I couldn't get it up. Sometimes… more often I didn't care enough to try. There are guys who'll jump on anything that moves. They never lose that-- that desperate-- It's… kind of sad. Pathetic. Scary. Then there are guys who just lose interest. I mean, what's the point? You're isolated long enough, you stop even thinking about it. The thing you've been thinking about the most your whole fucking life and one day it's just… not worth thinking about."

"Charlie--"

"Or you think about it, but only when you're angry. So angry, and that's the only time you can--There are guys like that, too. They'll scare the shit out of you, the ones that can't get off unless they're hurting someone. You think people are born like that, but they can be made to be like that, too. I've seen it happen. I-- I didn't want to be-- I didn't want that to be me. So I didn't let it. I stopped. I stopped thinking. I stopped feeling. Anything."

She opens her mouth to say something stupid like, 'I understand,' then stops. Both her sympathy and the dry, academic reports she's gotten over the years on what happened to him in that place seem spectacularly inadequate right now.

"Seeing you... Am I embarrassing you?"

"No, but you don't have to explain anything Charlie. Not to me."

"I… I think I'm still a little loaded." 

She's proud of herself that her hands never falter, just keep spreading aloe over his abused skin.

"That feeling, the not feeling, that lasted about five years, I think. I lose track. I was completely fucked and I thought I was going to be that way for the rest of my life, when you showed up. You surprised the hell out of me Connie. I don't think I even noticed how beautiful you are the first time, when you came in and said you wanted to help me re-open the case. I was just so shocked that when I talked, an actual person talked back. 

"Later on, when they let you in the visitor's room with me and I could see your skin and your hair I-- I could barely walk back to the hole that time, I was so-- I think it was the third time you were there. It felt like fucking flying, like I was going to live, was alive, finally, finally again… finally…"

His words, which have become even quieter and slightly slurred, trail off. She eyes the aloe and wonders if she should break off a piece for her cheeks. "You must be exhausted."

"Tired, yeah. I don't wanna be that guy, Connie. That crazy, insane prison guy who hurts people. I don't want to go back and do… anything. Bad. To you or anyone."

She helps him up from the table and he slings an arm around her shoulders. "You won't, Charlie. You were never that guy. You're not going to be that guy."

"God, I love women," he snuffles softly into her hair.

They make it to the bed in the back room. It's not exactly pristine, and she wrinkles her nose as she lowers him into it, but there's no help for it. He's dead on his feet. She reaches out to touch his hair, then berates herself for being such a fucking cliché. Right. She'll get him on a boat to Ensenada, and then they'll find the consulate and see if she can beg, borrow or steal their way back into the country.

"Connie." Charlie blearily opens his eyes and looks up at her. "I thought that was you."

"Yup, it's me."

He closes his eyes again and mutters, "Melon balls."

"Yes Charlie" she says, "As your lawyer, I consider it my duty to ensure that you get as many as you want. For the rest of your life."

 

***~*~***

 

December 31st, 2007  
Casa del Mar Hotel  
Santa Monica, California

Just like the GPS map in his phone told him, Pico dead ended in a cul-de-sac. What the map didn't show was that the short loop of asphalt was carefully landscaped and lined with gleaming Jags and BMWs. It was also barricaded, and swarming with men in dark trousers, white shirts and bright, red windbreakers. He climbed out of the car and handed his keys to one of the men, who was evaluating the clean, sloping lines of the Maserati with approval. 

"Happy New Year, sir," the valet said.

"Thank you. What's your name?"

"Miguel, sir." Miguel handed Charlie a ticket and climbed into the car.

"Happy New Year, Miguel." They shared a grin of appreciation as Miguel shut the car door and gunned the engine a bit, then let it settle into a full throttle purr. Charlie knew the ocean was in front of him, though he couldn't see it. Even after Miguel pulled away, he couldn't hear it, either, due to the laughter and loud music spilling from the two hotels bordering the cul-de-sac. And with the glare of a dozen lit-up windows dazzling his eyes, he could just make out the moon, a perfect hemisphere hanging in the near black sky.

He'd forgotten how it never truly got dark here in town. At the back end of the Valley, he and Jen had been able to see a million stars at night. Here, the billion megawatts of light from the city bounced up and lit the sky from below, casting the stars into shadow and making the moonlight seem second-rate. He laughed to himself. Compared to the pitch black of the hole, he'd take it.

He'd take the fresh, salty air, too. This close to the water, it felt almost balmy, though he conceded that he probably should have grabbed a coat for appearances' sake. He smoothed down the front of his tuxedo jacket and checked his tie. Ted had assured him he knew how to tie the damned thing, but that had been fifty-five minutes and twenty-five miles of New Year's eve traffic ago. He'd check in a mirror once he got inside. This evening was a performance, after all. 

He turned to the hotel on his left. He'd never been here before. Just from the mellow brown stone façade and elegant front doors, he knew Jen would have loved it. Two doormen chorused "Happy New Year, sir," as they ushered him into a marble foyer that featured not one, but two curving staircases. As he climbed the stairs, he opened his eyes a bit wider at the mosaics, stained glass, brocade and money in every direction. So this was how the other half of the department did it. He was willing to bet he wouldn't find Bobby pounding out the Stark burgers once he got to the top of the stairs.

What he did find surprised him even more. 

"Crews," Reese said.

"Reese," he replied.

She was standing half-hidden behind a green and gold curtain, looking longingly at the stairs he'd just climbed. Her back was to the crowd that filled the enormous lobby. 

"Sir, Madam, welcome." The man with the raised eyebrow and proffered hand looked elegant enough to be a guest, but since there was no way in hell an LAPD cop, no matter how elevated in rank, would ever look that much at home in a tux, Charlie figured he was a concierge or a maitre d' or something. Maybe hotel security. Charlie pulled his gold-embossed invitation from his pocket, and watched Reese pull a similar piece of paper from the tiny, gold-beaded purse she was carrying. 

As the greeter checked their invitations, then made simultaneous welcoming and shooing motions that herded them further into the lobby, Charlie took a second look at Reese, as surreptitiously as possible. Her hair was up in the heavy knot he'd seen many times. What he hadn't seen before were her pale gold arms, shoulders and most of her back completely bare. He was also pretty certain he'd never seen her in a long, velvet dress the color of Damson plums. Or with a silky-looking piece of lavender material, embroidered in a Middle Eastern pattern, draped over her arms. She caught his eye right at the moment he was trying to figure out where she might be concealing her weapon.

"Oh, you can't be serious."

"What? You look awesome, Reese."

"Crews, do not even--" She took a deep breath and visibly changed gears. "Thank you," she said. She even smiled a bit. "So do you." 

The smile changed to a look of concentration as she reached up to pull at his tie. Damn Ted anyway for letting him go out of the house with it screwed up. As Reese moved closer and kept fiddling, he decided to forgive Ted after all. "Okay," she said, finally. "You're good."

"Thank you. I'd return the favor but I don't see anything that needs adjusting."

She rolled her eyes. "Are you sure? Did you check really thoroughly?"

"Dani, let's go in."

Charlie looked up and locked eyes with Jack Reese, who had obviously just come up the stairs and passed muster with the greeter. Oh, this was going to be an interesting night.

Jack ignored him and repeated, "Dani, let's go in."

"You go ahead," she said, without turning around. "I'm talking to my partner."

Charlie had seen expressions like Jack's on lifers with nothing to lose and almost laughed. He was actually glad the stare was directed at him. If Jack had looked at Reese like that, Charlie would have made sure he went back down the stairs without touching a single step.

"Go on ahead," Dani said, half turning, but still not looking at her father.

As Jack turned without a word and walked toward the glittering crowd, Charlie looked down at Dani, who was steadfastly looking at his tie. "Everything okay?" he asked softly.

"Yeah." She raised her head and gave him a brilliant, slightly dangerous-looking smile. "Everything's peachy."

Uh-oh, he thought. He turned toward the lobby and put a hand on her back -- the covered part -- and said, "Want to leave?" She was vibrating slightly and as tight as a drum.

"Nope." She lifted her head and surveyed the crowd. " _I_ want to have a happy new year, which means making sure the right people see that I came here tonight like a good little detective on probation, and you came here tonight, like a good little detective… period." She surprised him by looping her hand over his arm in the time-honored manner of royalty with their humble escorts everywhere. "So let's go in and get it over with. And then we can get the hell out of here." She lifted her head and straightened her back as they moved forward, surveying the room with serene self-possession. He began to wonder who was supporting whom.

The party was in full swing by the time they reached the edge of the crowd. By silent consent, they split up to work the room in opposite directions. Jack Reese seemed to have disappeared, but the LT was present and accounted for, looking deceptively ethereal in pale blue. The room was lousy with Division brass, Watch Commanders and politicians, including the Mayor. They all eyed Crews while pretending to ignore him. If he'd thought that pinning the Seybolt murders on the right man would make him as popular in this room as he seemed to be now back at the station, he would have been sadly mistaken. Since he'd never thought that, or sought it out either, he found himself having a great time catching peoples' eyes and making them either shake his hand with phony bonhomie, or turn away quickly so they wouldn't have to. 

By the time he'd made a half-circuit of the room, grabbed some champagne off one tray and something spicy on a cracker from another, all without exchanging more than a dozen words with any one person, the game began to lose its appeal. 

He scanned the crowd and spotted Reese, who had been waylaid by a good-looking, dark-haired man. The guy had his hand on her arm and was making her frown in a way Charlie hadn't seen yet tonight, even during the encounter with her father. If the guy was just some drunken loser, he was about to find out he was making the biggest mistake of his life, entertaining Charlie in the process. Except… the man's face was familiar somehow. Older, Charlie realized with a start, but definitely familiar.

He walked up to the two of them, smiled brightly and stuck out his hand. "Charlie, friend of Dani."

The man smiled vaguely, all his attention still on Reese. He shook Charlie's hand automatically. "Chris. Any friend of Dani's is a friend of mine."

"Excellent. Could I interest you in some green stuff on a cracker, Chris? The tomato and cheese thing is also very good. It looks like pizza to me, but what do I know? I believe the waiter called it bruschetta. Is that right? Bruschetta?" He turned to Reese, who had a wary look on her face. "And then there's the fresh fruit. The pineapple skewers are particularly fine."

"Crews--"

The man tore his gaze from Reese to ask, with a puzzled look, "Are you working…?" He blinked, then his expression slackened. "Oh. Fuck."

"Working? The party? Oh, no. I can see why you might think that, Chris, but the fact of the matter is that I'm just having such a good time, I had to spread the joy. You see, where I come from, there is a shocking lack of green stuff on crackers. In fact, there are no crackers. Or bruschetta, for that matter. And the green stuff is usually meat of some sort. You can imagine how much I'm enjoying this party, then. Can't you, Chris?"

"I'm sorry, Dani, I've got to--" He tried to pull his hand away. "I've got to-- Will you let go of me, please?"

"You have to go so soon? But Chris, the party's just getting started!"

"I've got to leave." The man pulled hard enough that Crews thought he might overbalance and slip to the floor. "Let. Me. Go."

"Oh, that's funny Chris. That's exactly what I used to say. Or what I used to scream, possibly. It's all kind of a blur now."

"Crews, look at me." 

Reese's voice pierced the red haze in front of his eyes and he swung around to look at her with a vague smile. "Reese! This is Christopher Thornton, former prosecutor for the City of Los Angeles. But I guess you knew that."

"I know who he is, Crews." She laid a hand on his arm. "You've made your point. Back off." He looked down. Her nails were the same plum color as the dress; like Concord grapes, tiny and sweet. He sucked in a breath as she tightened her hand on his arm and said, "Now, Crews." Okay, tiny maybe, but not so sweet.

He let go of Thornton, who cradled his freed hand with a grimace and muttered something about a restraining order before stalking off.

"He never even said good-bye," Crews said, in a shocked voice. "He must not be that good of a friend." He looked around and noted that though their chance meeting had been conducted in a moderate tone, notice had been taken. Good for him, but not so great for Reese. 

"Not that I owe you any explanation whatsoever, Crews, but--" 

He grabbed her under the elbow and began to walk toward the back of the room. "I've got an idea. Let's dance."

"What?" She started to slow down, so he did, too, not wanting it to look like he was dragging her anywhere. "I don't dance."

"Oh come on, Reese, it's a party. Everybody dances!" He turned to face her. "Please," he said, dropping his voice, "dance with me. Where the music is playing. Really loudly."

Her expression cleared and she moved forward willingly, then right into his arms once they got to the dance floor. "Okay," she said. "Let's talk about Thornton. Or I know, let's talk about my father. What is going on between you two?"

"This music is great! Isn't this great music? Not that I recognize it, but doesn't it make you want to dance all night?"

"Crews." She gave him a direct look. "Do you think I'm involved in what happened to you? What might still be happening to you?"

"No," he said instantly. "You aren't involved."

She raised an eyebrow. "Are you so sure?"

"Yes. I am."

She held his gaze for a moment, then her eyes softened. "I know Thornton. I've known him since I was a little girl, and he probably was just checking up on me for my father. I didn't know what he did to you until I read… In fact, I still don't, not really. Do you think he's involved in what's happening to you?"

He eyed her warily. "What do you think is happening to me?"

"Crews, you were framed. That took a lot of people. People who are obviously still covering for what they did and want you gone. Who do you think--"

"It did take a lot of people. I assume the cover-up may be pulling in a few more. I think I know who some of them are, but not all of them. And none of them are you." He pulled her close and spun them around, wondering if there was any way in hell to avoid having this conversation. Maybe if they got dizzy enough. "For some reason, I don't think you've quite got the hang of what New Year's eve is all about, Reese. Loosen up!" He shuffled her around a portly couple and tried to figure out how to dip her. It always looked so easy in the movies.

"Crews, what if I told you I was supposed to get you kicked off the job before you'd barely started? What if I told you I came so close to doing it that for a few hours there you were out of the job and didn't even know it?"

He smiled down at her. "Are you trying to shock me? Try again."

"Okay, how about this? Part of me really enjoyed watching you stick it to Thornton while everyone in that room watched and I-- I don't really like the part of me that enjoyed it. Maybe... Maybe I should tell the LT day after tomorrow that we've taken this about as far as it can go. Maybe it's time for them to find you a new partner."

"No." It was a spontaneous reaction, and he meant it very, very sincerely. 

"I've been using you, Crews. There's a part of me that's wanted to say, 'Fuck you' to these people for a very long time, and you were exactly what I needed to do that."

"You don't think that's why I'm here too?"

"I know that's why you're here, but you could have used anyone to do that. Or no one at all. Me, I needed a big stick, something to get their attention. Something that would piss them off so bad they'd finally fire me, and I could thumb my nose at my father in the best way possible." Her voice was shaking now, the way he knew her body wanted to, though she refused to let it. "You don't deserve that. After what you went through. To be used like that. And you know what?"

"What?" he asked softly.

"I don't deserve it either. I'm a good cop. That's what I want to be. But I'm afraid if I let you stick around I _am_ going to use you, play games with--"

"Bullshit."

She stiffened completely in his arms. "Fuck you. I'm trying to do the right thing here. You don't know--"

"Dani? Is everything okay?"

Charlie realized they'd stopped doing anything close to dancing for the last few seconds and looked up from Reese's angry eyes with a start. Marc Taylor? Trailor? The guy from Sex Crimes who'd helped them out on the Larson case, was standing next to them with a concerned expression.

"I'm fine." Reese pulled away from Charlie slightly.

Charlie kept silent. If she wanted to walk away, now would be the perfect chance. 

"I'm fine, Marc," she repeated. 

After an uncomfortable silence, Marc nodded and shrugged. "You're fine. Good to hear it. Happy New Year, Dani."

"Now here's someone with the right attitude. Happy New Year!" Charlie let go of Reese and shook Marc's hand warmly.

"Oh for fuck's sake." Marc turned on his heel and walked away.

When Charlie looked over to see Reese's reaction, he discovered that she was not only gone from the dance floor, she was running up the short flight of steps to the bar area and toward the French windows at the back of the room. He followed as quickly as he could without being obvious about it. "Reese," he hissed. She ignored him and strode out onto the mostly deserted terrace.

Not deserted enough for her taste apparently, as he caught sight of the hem of her dress slipping down the stone steps. She hurried out toward the walkway that separated the hotel from the enormous stretch of sand leading to the water.

"Reese!" He caught her arm just as she stepped toward the beach.

She froze in place. "Let go or you're going to lose that hand."

He instantly released her. "What the hell are you doing? It's cold out here."

"I couldn't breathe in there. And you might not have noticed, you self-involved jackass, but I'm trying to protect you. And I'm pissed off at you."

She folded her arms and bit her lip, probably to keep her teeth from chattering. The temperature outside had dropped at least twenty degrees since they'd arrived.

Charlie took his life in his hands and unbuttoned his jacket, then swung it over her shoulders. Terrifyingly, she didn't protest or throw it back in his face. She didn't even acknowledge it was there.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Goddammit, Crews." She slumped back against the hotel wall. 

"I know." He slumped back with her. "Reese, you're too smart not to know that I came here for exactly what happened tonight, to make life miserable for every one of the bastards who framed me and who hoped I would die but didn't have the guts to kill me themselves. You wanted to use me? I've been trying like hell not to use _you_." 

"Why? Use me for what? Tell me what the hell is going on."

"You're right, Reese, you are a good cop. A damned good cop." And the fact that you're Jack Reese's kid has made my beautiful plan so fucking complicated I want to put my fist through this wall, he thought with frustration. 

"Look," he continued. "I will tell you… All that's important now is that you may be too good and I may be a self-involved jackass but I like working with you. I'm good when I'm working with you. I never expected that but… There it is. So no transfer. Please. No."

There was no reply. She might have been made of the same stone as the wall for all the response he got. He was about to turn and walk away when she started to laugh. It wasn't pretty, but it was definitely a laugh.

"Reese?"

She laughed harder 

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, Crews, I'm okay."

He assumed that meant there would be no transfer requests made to the LT day after tomorrow, but decided not to push it. "Are you warmer now? I know I am. Nothing like a frank exchange of views with your partner to warm a person up."

"Oh, I'm plenty warm. But if you feel the need for further discussion on how we've just outsmarted the department and each other by agreeing to continue something that probably never should have started in the first place, please, feel free."

"No, I'm good." Charlie tucked his hands under his arms and shuffled his feet. Diamond sharp sand had somehow trickled into his handmade dress shoes. He thought about giving in and pulling them off; of burying his toes in the sand just beyond the walkway to see if it was warmer further down. 

They stood in silence while he contemplated… many things. They had synched up so quickly at work, but he was floundering out here, even though they seemed to have reached a truce for the moment. He looked out over the sand, wondering if there might be a dead body out there. They were so much better at dealing with dead bodies than this stuff. He glanced over at her and realized that he had absolutely no fucking idea what she was contemplating, but he appreciated the fact that she was doing it next to him. Maybe she was looking around hoping for a dead body, too.

Finally, he said. "Smell that salt air. Bracing, isn't it? You gotta love the beach."

"You hate the beach. You always say it makes you itchy." Reese started to shrug off his jacket, then gave him an inscrutable look as he stopped her by pulling the lapels forward. He gave a wistful thought to her bare shoulders, then closed the jacket tight around her.

She frowned up at him. "Don't put me up on a pedestal, Crews. You have no idea what I'm capable of if I'm pushed."

"Yes I do. You push back. I like that in a partner."

She smiled, though it never reached her eyes. "My other partners thought differently. I hope you don't find out they were right."

"Let's go for a walk," he said.

"You're going to freeze to death."

"The moonlight will keep me warm. Maybe I'll get a tan."

"You are such a freak." She turned her back on him and hesitated, about to take the path back to the hotel. 

He waited; heard the Zen voice remind him that the direction they took didn't matter. That it was the journey that was important. 

She abruptly turned right and set off down the walkway toward the beach, her usual, no-nonsense stride giving no quarter to the precariously high, strappy shoes on her feet. He started to grin as he trotted after her. The Zen voice piped up again to remind him not to feel pleased with this development, that triumph and disaster should be treated just the same. As they hit the end of the concrete path, Reese hesitated again, then reached up and loosened her hair. She turned around to face him as she began to pull off her shoes. He raised his eyebrows and told the Zen voice in no uncertain terms to take the night off. 

"Did I ever tell you that I hold the sprinting record for women at the Academy?" She smiled at him, teeth and everything.

Ah. "Did I ever tell you that nobody ever beat me in the quarter mile lap between the machine shop and the laundry room and back again?" He grinned back while toeing off his shoes.

"Big talk, big man." She flashed another grin at him, then took off while he was still hopping from foot to foot, trying to pull off his socks. He stuffed them in his shoes and started after her, almost falling within the first two strides as the deep, dry sand sucked him down.

Reese was skimming ahead of him, velvet dress hiked over her knees. It was black in the moonlight, the same shade as his coat, which flared out behind her like a cape. After fifty thankless yards, he reached the packed, hard sand near the water two strides behind her. With a shocked, "Hey, hey, hey!" he grabbed the back of the coat to slow her down before she went headlong into the surf.

"What the hell are you doing?" she demanded as she swung around. "What's the point of running to the water if you don't go _in_ the water?" He held onto the coat so that she ended up facing him, pressed against him, breath coming hard. There was just enough light reflecting off the sand to make out her face. Enough to know that her eyebrows were drawn together and her chin was jutting forward in the "Don't fuck with me," expression that put all other "Don't fuck with me" expressions to shame.

"Do I look like a Polar bear? Besides, thanks to you, I now have a phobia. Last time I went in the water, I got nine hundred thousand volts shot through me."

He caught a glimpse of the whites of her eyes as they made an exaggerated roll. "And yet, you're still here."

"I don't want to get wet."

"Tourist."

"Cheater."

"You're just being pissy because I beat you."

"The fundamental delusion of humanity is to suppose that I am behind and you are in front. What if the race is being run the other way?"

"Oh my god, you are so full of crap."

"And you're a little crazy trying to leap into that water. Just a little. It's charming," he reassured her as she gave him a look that told him if he kept it up, he might end up swimming after all.

He eased his grasp and she moved back slightly. The absence of warmth almost made him ask her to move close again, or to share the jacket somehow. Afraid of the answer -- whether it was yes or no -- he kept quiet. The insistent crash of the waves became the dominant sound as their breathing eased.

"It's pretty out here," Charlie said after a minute, gesturing at the frothy waves.

"It's fucking freezing," Reese muttered.

"Oh, now you're cold?"

"I am just standing here. If we were running or swimming or--" She gave him a diffident sideways look. "Or you know, dancing or whatever, I'd be a hell of a lot warmer."

"Whatever? Do you want to whatever?"

"Shut up."

After another silent moment, she turned and began to walk up the beach right next to the curling water's edge. He followed, watching her narrow, bare feet dig into the sand. He was seeing lots of new parts of Reese naked tonight. 

He was trying to decide if he liked that when the opening strains of "Auld Lang Syne" wafted across the sand from the terrace. Over the couple hundred drunken voices singing the familiar words, Charlie said cheerfully, "Here's to old acquaintances. May they be forgot."

She turned and walked backward a few steps. "Those aren't the words." 

He dropped his shoes and kept moving forward as she stopped. The wool of his jacket felt scratchy under his hands as he vigorously rubbed her arms. "May old acquaintance be left to rot? Aren't your feet cold? Do you want me to rub them, too?"

She laughed, "No."

"Which, the words or the feet or the rub--"

Her lips were cold but her breath was warm, and the inside of her mouth was warmer still. She made a small sound and threaded her fingers through his hair and pulled him closer. He licked tentatively at the surprise of her tongue, then the inside her lips. His own were rapidly warming. Her other hand went from resting at his waist to clutching at his shirt and he wondered if he was the one who was about to get dipped. She was licking back now, and he was sliding his tongue into her, deeper, so warm and-- She pulled back.

He kept his eyes closed for a moment as he rested his forehead against hers. He was breathing harder than he had after their run, and took a moment to grin at himself.

Once his breathing slowed he pulled back a little. His eyes had adjusted enough to the not-quite-darkness that he could see her clearly. She was giving him her thoughtful look, the one she used for crime scenes and new types of tacos on the menu at La Estrella. 

"Okay," she finally said. "That was probably the worst idea I've had in a while. And trust me when I say I know from bad ideas."

He licked his lips. "We could go jump in the water now. That would probably be a bad enough idea that it would cancel out this one."

"No, I-- I think I want to remember this."

"This and no more?" He smiled ruefully. More would be great, more would be awesome. More would probably be the stupidest thing he'd done yet since coming back to the world.

"This and no more." She nodded firmly. Then bit her lip. "We're agreed it was a bad idea, right?"

He nodded back. "Next New Year's maybe we can… go skydiving or something. Parachute optional."

"Deal."

"Or we could stay home and watch TV with Ted. I've missed Dick Clark standing on a roof with his sparkly ball something awful."

"Oh god, Charlie." She laughed.

"What?"

"Nothing. I'll tell you later."

He leaned in slowly. Very, very slowly, in case she decided to do something scary, like tackle him to the sand and ravish him. Or punch him in the nose. She stood still, and her lips retained their faint smile after he dropped a soft kiss on them.

"Happy New Year, Reese."

"Happy New Year, Crews."

She rested a hand on his cheek for a moment, then ducked under his arm to pick up her shoes. He watched her make her way back to the path that would bring her to the hotel; to warmth and food. Maybe some dancing. Or… whatever. 

He turned one last time to take in the hazy half moon, then wiggled his toes in the powdery sand. The salt air smelled nothing like blood; the voices inside the hotel were raised in laughter, not fear. It had been a hell of a long time coming, but he decided he could live with that fact. "Happy New Year," he said, "to me."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to vonniek for egging me on to write Charlie & Dani FBI Ball-fic, though I'm sure she wasn't aware that's what she was doing. 
> 
> Thanks to angstville for pointing out hello, how hot Charlie and Constance are together, and wondering what in their backstory made them that way. 
> 
> Thanks to infinitemonkeys for providing visual inspiration for the Charlie in Constance's story. *g*
> 
> If anyone notices a problem with the timeline for Bobby's story, trust me, I noticed it too. Further story notes are here: http://denynothing1.livejournal.com/20849.html


End file.
